


caped crusaders don't eat pb&j sandwiches

by MissSugarPlum



Category: DC Extended Universe, Shazam! (2019)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, POV Clark Kent, Silly nonsense, definitely not teens ahahahaha, i mean heroes, not teens, rated t for teens who curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 01:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18511354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSugarPlum/pseuds/MissSugarPlum
Summary: Philadelphia’s new super-powered marvel of a man had entered Bruce Wayne’s secret underground lair via the stairwell, shouted “Holyshitthis is so cool,” and promptly tripped over his own cape. He tumbled head over heels down half the stairs before going through the wall, raining shards of shattered glass down over the room proper, and landed flat on his back with a sickeningthud.-x-Or, how Sir Zaps-A-Lot convinced Superman to have lunch with a nerdy teenager at a random Philadelphia school.





	caped crusaders don't eat pb&j sandwiches

**Author's Note:**

> alternate title from my notes: trying to give supes an Actual Personality like he has in the comics instead of fucking snyderverse while still trying to tie in events that happened in canon dceu (a song by fall out boy)
> 
> this fic would be nothing without [lana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarybooks), who is seriously more than i ever deserve and is just as desperate for content in this fandom as i am. thank you so much babe, i love you to absolute pieces<3
> 
> despite the title, there is no mention of pb&js in this fic. sorry to all the sandwich enthusiasts out there.

-x-

 

Philadelphia’s new super-powered marvel of a man had entered Bruce Wayne’s secret underground lair via the stairwell, shouted “Holy _shit_ this is so cool,” and promptly tripped over his own cape. He tumbled head over heels down half the stairs before going through the wall, raining shards of shattered glass down over the room proper, and landed flat on his back with a sickening _thud_.

 

The broken glass is mostly cleared away now thanks to Alfred, who had barely even reprimanded the groaning and grousing man. He’s indubitably fine, not even a scratch on him, and had even cheerily exchanged a few words about clumsiness and super speed with Barry and Victor as he brushed himself off.

 

All the same, Clark isn’t so sure about this guy.

 

To be fair, he’s not so sure about a lot of things — the air between him and Bruce is still fraught with a tension he doesn’t know how to dispel, and this fledgling alliance between them, between all of them, is still shaky under the weight of all their history and not enough time for it to all settle.

 

He doesn’t think adding more people, superpowered though they may be, to their ragtag group is really the best thing for them right now.

 

But, well. He’s been wrong before, about several things, other heroes included.

 

“This could be just what you all need,” Lois had said once he’d told her about their prospective new member. “Haven’t you seen the YouTube videos? People love him — he’s a sensation.”

 

Clark _has_ seen the videos — most of his reservations had stemmed from them. It’s obvious to anyone who looks that this is a man still adjusting to a sudden influx of powers and experimenting with what he can do with them, but what kind of person _documents_ their explorations of their powers and then puts those documentations on the internet for _anyone and everyone_ to see?

 

It’s juvenile, is what it is. He remembers the news footage of the teenager seen arguing with him after the incident with the bus, and his resolve firms. This guy isn’t a hero.

 

Not yet, at any rate.

 

The man (“Call me Max,” he’d said when he first arrived at Wayne Manor, snickering like this was all a giant joke to him) grins at Clark. He leans against a wall, looking completely at ease. “Wow, so you’re, like, really him, huh?”

 

Clark frowns at the words, then frowns harder when he realizes he’s the one being addressed. “Him who?”

 

“You’re really Superman,” the guy (Clark refuses to believe his name is Max, it’s _obviously not Max_ ) says. “That’s so cool!”

 

Oh. He must be a fan.

 

That would explain the ridiculous cape, if nothing else.

 

Clark feels a corner of his mouth turn up at the thought. “I guess so,” he answers. “It’s pretty normal, for me.”

 

“Well, sure,” ‘Max’ says. He drops to the ground, heedless of the dirt, crossing his legs beneath him and propping his chin on one closed fist.

 

(And there’s another thing Clark can’t quite wrap his head around: it’d be one thing if it was Diana or Barry bringing this guy in — they both believe so much in the goodness of humankind — but what in the _world_ had possessed Bruce? What did this man say to convince _Bruce_ , of all people, to not only bring him into their fold of superhero-dom but to also bring him to the _batcave_ , therefore revealing his own closely-guarded identity?)

 

( _“Stop calling it a batcave,”_ Bruce’s exasperated voice rings through Clark’s head — he’s heard this complaint more than once, and could probably recite it verbatim at this point. _“Just because it’s underground doesn’t mean it’s a_ cave _, Christ. At least it’s not a_ fortress of solitude _in the middle of the fucking_ arctic _.”_ )

 

( _“Watch your language, Bruce, there are_ children _present,”_ Diana had chided him once, playfully reaching out to cover Victor’s ears, and the meeting had very quickly devolved from there.

 

They didn’t get much of anything done after that, but it had been a good day.)

 

“But I’ve never met another superhero before,” the guy is saying, and Clark shakes himself back to the present. “And you’re, like, _the_ superhero!”

 

“ _The_ superhero?” Clark echoes.

 

“Yeah! Don’t get me wrong”— he looks around furtively, then must deduce Bruce is too far away to hear them before continuing —“Batman is amazing, I mean he’s like, _the goddamn Batman_ , y’know, and of course Wonder Woman is friggin’ legendary, but you’re a _hero’s_ hero, y’know?”

 

Clark doesn’t know. He has no idea what this guy is talking about. “Sure.”

 

Not-Max grins again. “ _So_ cool. Freddy’s totally jealous.” He hums with an air of satisfaction, as if the thought brings him great joy.

 

“Freddy?”

 

“Ah.” Not-Max falters slightly at this. “My — uh, my manager?”

 

“You have a manager.” This guy has been around for all of three minutes, and he has a _manager?_

 

“You don’t?”

 

“No, I — ” Clark sighs. He has officially lost the thread of this conversation. “Why would I have a manager?”

 

“I don’t know, dude, to like, _manage_ you? Take care of all the day-to-day crap while you’re busy _fighting crime?_ Helps you with your social media presence?”

 

“Seriously?”

 

Not-Max gestures animatedly, exasperatedly. “Dude, do you even _have_ Twitter?”

 

Clark pinches the bridge of his nose. Of course _Clark_ has Twitter, but he’s never seen the point of creating one for his alter-ego. The very point of even having an alter-ego, after all, is for privacy — why would he display Superman somewhere that is the very antithesis of the word?

 

“I’m bothering you, aren’t I?” The words come in a rush, and Clark looks up to catch a moue of chagrin flash across the other super’s face. He slumps into his sitting position on the ground, shoulders curved inward, and Clark has the sudden thought that he looks like a chastised child. “Sorry. Sometimes I talk too much when I’m nervous.”

 

An uncomfortable sense of shame fills Clark as the realization sets in. Of _course_ he’s nervous — why wouldn’t he be? This is a man who, in a very short period of time, got powers (how did he receive them? Did he stumble upon them? Were they given to him? Clark would love to hear the full story someday, because he’s sure it’s a doozy), did his best to figure them out (questionable methods notwithstanding), and fought a hell of a fight against a bunch of monster demon _things_ (news sources varied on what they actually were, but all agreed they were _terrifying_ ) — all on top of whatever else must be going on in his life. And now, adding to that, meeting with arguably the strongest people on the planet, the most well-known superheroes in the world… it’s no wonder.

 

“It’s fine.” When Clark speaks, he tries his best to sound reassuring. He urges his lips to turn upward, but he’s not sure how well he succeeds.

 

Not-Max barks a laugh, and Clark’s half-smile falters. Evidently not well enough, then. “You don’t have to lie to spare my feelings, dude.”

 

“I’m not.” Clark swallows, searching for the right words. They come slowly. “Ever since I… uh, came back… Well. People are hard.”

 

Not-Max’s face, which had shifted from embarrassment to defiance in the face of what he must have assumed was Clark’s pity, fills now with understanding, expression softening. “Hey man, I totally get it.” He tilts his head curiously. “Well, not like, _get it_ , because I haven’t actually died and then somehow come back, I really can’t even imagine what _that’s_ —” He smacks a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. “I am so sorry, I really need to shut up, _god_.” His voice is muffled, barely discernible through his fingers, and a dull red flush has crept up the back of his neck and ears.

 

Clark laughs — a real, genuine laugh. In the periphery of his vision he can see Bruce, at the other end of his not-batcave with Barry, startle and look up at the sound. “It’s okay,” he says, and he means it. The smile on his face hasn’t felt this honest outside his own home in a long time. It feels good. “I don’t really know how to talk about it, either.”

 

The guy (Clark is going to have to press him for an actual name soon, or perhaps ask Diana to use her Lasso on him, assuming she hasn’t already thought of that) studies Clark closely for a long moment before hesitantly smiling back. “Sorry,” he says again, letting his hand fall from his face.

 

“I think I should be the one apologizing to you.”

 

“What? No, dude, no way, you’re _Superman_ — ”

 

“But I’m still just a _man_ ,” Clark breaks in. He understands the way people tend to put Superman on a pedestal, but he will never get used to it or even be moderately comfortable with it. He holds out a hand. “The name’s Clark.”

 

Not-Max gapes at his outstretched hand for only a second before latching onto it with his own. His grip is astonishingly strong; Clark thinks that if he weren’t, well, _Superman_ , he’d bruise. “I’m — ”

 

“Please don’t lie and say ‘Max’ again,” Clark says, and the guy’s mouth shuts with an audible _click_ of his teeth. “You can keep your identity a secret, if that’s really what you want, but you don’t have to lie.”

 

“O-okay.” His voice is small.

 

“We can always stick with ‘Sir Zaps-A-Lot,’ if you like.”

 

His eyes shoot up to meet Clark’s, and he groans when Clark’s lips twitch with humor despite his attempt to remain deadpan. “The name is a work in progress,” he explains, running a hand through his hair.

 

“Don’t worry,” Clark assures him, “you’ll find the perfect one eventually. Chances are it won’t even be you or anyone you know who comes up with it.”

 

“Well, Freddy’s not allowed to come up with names anymore anyway,” the other man says, expression growing dark. It would almost be intimidating if the topic of conversation weren’t so absurd. Clark wonders just how many names they’ve tried out and ultimately decided against. Maybe he has a list somewhere.

 

“It’ll probably be the media.”

 

“That’s even _worse!_ ”

 

Clark chuckles again, and after a moment Not-Max joins him, rueful.

 

“It really is _so_ awesome to meet you,” he says, a minute after their mirth has quieted down. “Freddy is a huge fan, and… I kind of am, too.”

 

Clark rubs the back of his neck, feeling especially self-conscious of his earlier dismissive attitude. “It’s nice to meet you as well. If there’s ever anything I can do…” He trails off, and as he watches, a glimmer of _something_ shines in his companion’s eye to accompany the growing grin on his face.

 

“Actually, now that you mention it…”

 

-x-

 

Clark should have known it was the kid from the bus footage. He really should have.

 

“You didn’t tell me your manager was a _child_.”

 

“Hey, he’s not a child! He’s fourteen, he’s a _teenager_.”

 

“That’s semantics and you know it. What in the world were you thinking, bringing someone so young into this?”

 

Captain Sparklefingers looks upset, frown lines creasing his brow heavily. “Freddy has been there for me since the beginning,” he says in a heated whisper, “when no one else was — adults _included_. I trust him with my life.”

 

Clark casts his gaze over to the boy sitting by himself amidst the crowd of the cafeteria. “That’s a dangerous thing to say.”

 

“It’s true.”

 

“Aren’t you worried for him?” As Clark speaks, a few kids — friends, possibly, although their ages vary wildly — approach Freddy’s table, talking quietly for a moment before settling down with their lunch trays.

 

“All the time,” Sparklefingers says. “Literally _all the time_. But he can take care of himself — I know it doesn’t really look like it, but he _can_. And when he can’t, I’m there to help.”

 

This is an argument Clark knows, without a doubt, he will not win, so he decides to drop the topic for now. Besides, he’s curious about something else. “Is this really what school lunches are like these days?”

 

Sparklefingers — Clark is absolutely milking this name as long as humanly possible (he’s saving his personal favorite, Thundercrack, for when he feels the other super _truly_ deserves it) — grimaces down at his own tray. “Unfortunately. Or — or so I’ve heard. From Freddy, y’know.”

 

“Right.” Clark clears his throat. “Well, let’s make this kid’s day.”

 

“Please, _please_ call him a kid to his face, I am _begging_ you,” the other man says fervently, eyes lighting with an unholy glee. It’s such an abrupt turnaround from _“he’s not a child”_ that Clark is nearly thrown by it. Not for the first time, he wonders at the bond and the history between the two of them.

 

“I thought we were doing something nice?”

 

“Ugh, fine.” He fiddles with the clasp of his cape, then straightens his shoulders, grinning fiercely. “Do me a favor and wait a minute after I sit with him — y’know, be dramatic and shit. He’s not gonna know what hit him, it’s gonna be _great_.”

 

Clark smiles at the obvious enthusiasm, the care for this teen that is so clear to see. “Sure thing.”

 

(The next thirty minutes pass quickly and wonderfully. Freddy is a fan in an almost extreme sense of the word but is absurdly polite to Clark, and the youths sitting with him — his foster family, he soon finds out — are also kind and very enthusiastic, asking all manner of questions and listening to his answers with an eager attentiveness that Clark hadn’t quite expected but nonetheless appreciates.

 

The food, however, is appallingly bad.

 

Clark chalks it up to a win anyway.)

 

-x-

**Author's Note:**

>  **kels:** i love this line because OF COURSE it's juvenile, and it just shows how much clark is Not the detective of the bunch  
>  **lana:** if he only knew...  
>  **kels:** bruce @ clark: u dumb bitch  
>  **lana:** clark: idk he acts really childish  
> bruce:  
> bruce: clark we need to have a talk
> 
> i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shoutosneezing), please come yell w me about shazam


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